


Songs of Innocence, Songs of Experience

by WetSammyWinchester



Series: 2017 Kink Bingo Fills [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bloodplay, Dubious Consent, Hunter Sam, M/M, Rough Sex, Unrelated Winchesters, Vampire Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:29:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WetSammyWinchester/pseuds/WetSammyWinchester
Summary: A string of bloodless bodies brings Sam to the door of The Old Rock. A mysterious priest wants to keep him there.





	Songs of Innocence, Songs of Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [nigeltde](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nigeltde/pseuds/nigeltde) for the beta on this!

Sam squints up at the bell tower of the church and back down at the photo in his hand. Forty years ago this must have been a nice building but rain and wind and time had worn down its white clapboard to a washed out grey. He starts to stuff the snapshot in his coat pocket, but pulls it back out again. A burn mark, dark and blistered, runs down the tower from where a wooden cross was shown in the photo.

The wind blows cool at his back as he stands alone in the parking lot. He looks up at the grey sky and closes his eyes against the rain.The drops fall heavy and wet on his skin before running down his face. A crunch of gravel sounds behind him and his gaze snaps back to the Impala where it sits alone on the crushed grey rock. Sam tenses but the car is only surrounded by emptiness and a few broken beer bottles. 

_Listen to your instincts. Watch your surroundings. Don't make any unnecessary moves._ John died six months ago and Sam can still hear his voice, feel the authority of his directions, his ghost looking over his shoulder. He had hated those constant reminders of how to be a better hunter when his dad was alive. How funny is it that he can’t shake that voice now that he’s gone.

The Old Rock Church has a reputation with the local people of St. Dunstan, Michigan. Many claim to have heard spirits inside its walls, someone singing from the empty choir box, or a voice whispering in the dark confessional. Once things started moving on their own across the altar, the congregation and tithing thinned out and the church shut its doors five years ago.

Locals gossip about ghosts at the Old Rock, showing pride in the one noteworthy thing about this one-light town. Maybe they’re right about spirits haunting the old church, but Sam knows that there are worse things hidden away on these back roads.

Now, St. Dunstan had something else to be known for: a series of grisly murders. The latest victim, Jerry Small, had been found about a mile away from here, sprawled under the bobbing heads of yarrow at the side of the asphalt road. Jerry’s skin was white as a doll, and the semi-circular punctures on his neck were raw and mangled. There was no blood - none at the scene, none in the body - but there were traces of semen and evidence of sexual activity. As he squatted next to Jerry’s body that morning, he pulled back the upper lip to see nothing but smooth gums. 

Sam checks his pockets once more - a flask of holy water in one, lighter and fuel in the other, a demon-killing knife on his belt and a machete held loosely by his side. He doesn't know exactly what he's walking into. Vamps don't like consecrated ground and spirits don't usually suck and fuck, so the ghost story could be a coincidence. Better to be prepared for anything.

As the rain begins to pour, he runs across the lonely stretch of two-lane road. Pausing when he reaches the decrepit entryway, Sam shakes the drops from his hair and pushes the long strands behind his ears. Dead leaves skitter across his shoes and the gust of wind announces the start of a summer storm. The frosted glass panels in the entry doors don’t show him much, but he can see a flicker of gold light inside. A sign of life in what is supposed to be a dead church. Taking a deep breath, he adjusts his grip on the machete, and glances up and down the road once more before pushing the door open.

The foyer is empty, smelling of dust and mice nests. As he moves forward, Sam notices a dark stairwell on his left that must lead up to the bell tower, but is distracted by the golden glow that is spilling out from the nave. He peeks around the corner, and sees that the sacristy is lit up with dozens of white candles. Sam steps slow and soundless up the middle aisle, checking out each pew, but only finding faded red hymnals and prayer books tucked in their wooden shelves and dusty kneelers. The inside of the church is painted warm and welcoming by the candlelight, bringing the stained glass windows alive, much like Pastor Jim’s parish in Blue Earth. 

Yet another person and another place gone from Sam’s life.

He reaches the end of the aisle and stops, listening to the mounting storm as it pummels the stained glass from the outside. His steps echo as he climbs the three final raisers up to the communion rail with its velvet kneelers. Judging by the dust and the moth-eaten material, no one has been partaking of the body and blood of Christ for years. The candles behind the altar flicker and he runs his palms over the white and gold embroidered altar cloths, each stitch the proud product of some local ladies auxiliary. He wonders why no one took these with them when they locked their doors for the last time.

“I hope you're not here to rob us?” 

The deep voice makes Sam jump, spinning around to see a broad-shouldered priest, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed across his chest.

“Father?” Sam says. “I didn't see you there.”

The priest smiles as he pushes off the door frame. “I wasn't expecting anyone tonight. Just getting ready for services.”

A beautiful face for a priest. Full lips and fair skin, like a Renaissance painting. A man to serve as a model for masters, not a man who's taken the black of priesthood.

“Services?” Sam says, his brow creased. “I didn't think anyone used this church anymore.” 

The priest nods as he walks up the aisle, following in Sam's footsteps. “It's a new era. We’re trying to bring people in.”

Sam looks around at the empty pews and the dark confessional. “And how's that going?” 

The shrug the man gives speaks of resignation but his eyes are sharp and full of purpose. “Well, most days, it's just one person at a time. And today, you're my one person. How can I help you, Mr?--” 

“Sam. It's Sam.”

The priest licks his lips, and raises his head as he climbs the steps. His eyes reflects the candle flames, orange flickers inside a pool of green, and Sam’s palm grows sweaty against the machete handle as he tries to move it behind him.

“I’m Father Dean.” The man comes to a stop at the top step and gestures to the long blade in Sam’s hand. “Planning to chop the pews into kindling?”

It's tough to look away from those eyes, but when Sam does, he notices that any retreat he might have through the communion rail is blocked by the priest. Father Dean is tall and thick biceps strain under the black shirt and suit jacket, but Sam has training and height on his side. His instincts are telling him to bolt and jump the wooden rail, but then the priest speaks again.

“I know what it's like.”

“What?” Sam half focuses on the man’s words and steps back to give himself more room to move.

“To be alone. Like you, I was made into what I am now and left behind. And just like you, I had no say in it. We shouldn’t be blamed for our abandonment.”

Sam freezes at those words, like a rabbit in front of a rattler. He can't read Dean's face, not in the inconstancy of the candlelight, but it seems to flicker between sadness and hunger. The priest’s eyes glint red and Sam feels their pull again, recognizing that this is the predator he’s been hunting for.

“Who are you?” Sam says. “What are you?”

“Someone who’s been waiting. A lot of travellers come through here, men and women who are lost or curious. None as perfect as you.” 

Dean steps closer, and Sam flinches and raises the machete. Whatever is hiding beneath the priest’s clothes, it doesn’t attack but presses on and leans towards him with a pleased humming sound that climbs right up Sam’s spine and burrows in his heart. He is pulled toward the noise, compelled to place his fingertips on Dean’s lips and feel the vibration there. The machete drops back down as his other hand reaches out to the priest.

The humming stops and Dean smiles at him. The smile is beautiful and terrifying, bright when surrounded by the browns and greys of that broken-down church, and Sam wants to look away as his want swamps him. And then the teeth descend and he knows.

Sam continues to back up against the altar behind him. All the vampires he had hunted before were the stuff of nightmares, not wet dreams. Even the ones who used sex to kill weren’t like this. His dad would talk about vetalas that lured men as prostitutes or sirens that infected their victims with venom. The two of them had faced vamps before, but they were rough, violent monsters compared to this one.

“I’m not like those other creatures,” Dean says. 

Sam shifts his stance, uncomfortable at the thought of being read somehow, that he has been noticed before. Before he can make a move, the vampire closes in quickly, a blur to Sam’s eyes. Instead of attacking, it grabs his biceps and holds him in place. Sam tries to twist away but Dean only smiles.

“Don’t be afraid.” Dean’s eyes are now ringed in red.

Cold lips meet Sam’s and the taste is like fermented apple cider too long in the barrel. Sam opens his mouth in surprise, unsure how things escalated like this and questioning where his fear and his instinct for self-preservation have gone. He tilts his head to the side and kisses back. The taste of apples is joined by the smell of leaves and freshly turned garden soil, and Sam flashes on thoughts of Pastor Jim’s backyard, one of the few places he could call home.

Childhood memories disappear as Dean’s tongue pushes in past Sam's lips, and Sam lets him. Six months of hunting creatures like this alone. Six months of trying to meet the expectations of his dead father. And this one kiss fills the empty hole inside him as if he had been waiting for it all of his life. 

The machete hits the ground with a clang. 

Dean presses his body forward, grabbing onto the edge of the altar and pinning Sam into place between his arms. Sam moans and moves his hands to cup the sides of Dean’s face. The cool skin reminds him once again that this is not a man. 

His heartbeat is pounding inside his ears as they pull apart. Dean dives back in and noses at Sam’s jawline, and there is a rasp of scruff against his cheek. Sam’s cock throbs in response and presses hard against his jeans.

He wants this so badly and so deeply, and wonders if this is how the rabbit feels.

“What are you?” he whispers.

Dean hesitates at the question, putting the thinnest film of breathing room between them. “It doesn't matter, not really.” 

“It does to me.” Sam chases after the kiss, already missing Dean's lips on him. He wonders if it is part of the monster’s glamor, but in the end it doesn't matter. He still wants.

Dean spins him around and pushes him hard against the altar, the edge digging into his hips. He cries out at the force as Dean pulls back on his hair, tilting his head to the side, exposing the column of his throat towards the sacristy and the candles’ soft light. As the priest leans in to lick the skin along his pulse points, Sam squirms at the contact but is trapped in place.

“Look at you. Knew you would be perfect when I saw you in that big black car.”

Dean’s lips latch onto the soft skin over his carotid and he sucks on the spot, and Sam lets out a groan as the sensation becomes sharp, teeth piercing his skin. The pain sends a dark shock running down his spine into his balls, which tighten and thrum with electricity. He jerks his hips up but Dean's arm wraps around him from behind, pulling Sam up and back to his chest. The teeth which felt like pin pricks before now penetrate fully through the skin on his throat, and his vision whites out at the edges.

Fingers pull at the buttons on his shirt and tear at the zipper on his jeans, and Sam isn't sure if they're his hands or Dean's - he only knows that his body feels on fire and he needs to get all of his clothes off now. He whines when Dean stops to yank the jeans down. Before he can protest again, he is shoved face down onto the altar. Blood trickles from the holes in his neck, and he feels it running down his skin to drip on the linen below.

 _Get up boy. Don’t just lie there and take it. Save yourself._ He should listen to John’s voice and get up. If he could escape now, there would still be a chance to survive. But he is tired. He turns his cheek and lays it flat against the altar cloth, the rub of linen scratchy against his skin. His body is not a sacrifice; it is an offering.

Dean presses himself across Sam's back. His weight is heavy and the skin cool against the heat that Sam feels. His head is once more jerked back by the hair and he can see Dean's face over his shoulder. It shines as bright as the vampire’s teeth which have fully descended.

“Tell me you’re mine,” Dean says and it sounds like a question from his tone. Sam wants to laugh because he’s not sure whether the answer to that is really his choice at this point.

“Yes.” 

There is no hesitation, and John’s voice protests, but it is too late.

The vampire’s teeth sink into his throat, driving deeper and deeper. Sam shouts and his hands scrabble at the table top, frantic, finding nothing to hold. The jolt he felt before returns and surges through his body as Dean’s lips draw the blood. He has to close his eyes against the pain. When Dean pulls his mouth off, fingers quickly replace his lips and he pushes down on the curved wound, through the pulsing blood.

“I need to be inside you when you die.”

Sam's eyes flutter open in confusion and he tries to look back as Dean hauls him further up on the table, with Sam's toes barely grazing the floor. Slick fingers begin to move against his crack, pulling his cheeks apart. _My own blood_ , he thinks as the first one penetrates. It's still a bit dry and Dean pulls it back out. Teeth sink into his neck once more and Sam's head drops back down on the table in relief.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he chokes out. 

Dean stops the suckling to smear his fingers along the gash once more. Sam is light-headed from blood loss, but it doesn't stop his need, and Dean's finger slips more easily inside this time. Sam lets out a low whine of satisfaction as another is added and they move in and out, filling him. Dean crooks them and as they brush against his prostrate Sam strains on the tips of his toes, making a strangled cry.

“There you go,” Dean says from behind, twisting his fingers again before adding a third.

Sam moans, a low long noise that rises up to the rafters, scaring a bird off its perch there. He pumps his hips back to get those cold fingers deeper inside, but Dean pulls them out, lining up to push his cock inside. It’s slow and Sam moves to stand on his toes again, thighs shaking and spread as he is penetrated. He wants to move, he needs to move, but Dean’s cock has him pinned up against the altar. As he raises his head to look back, the vampire wraps his hand around Sam’s neck, giving it a squeeze while his lips and teeth graze over the punctures from before, before whispering in his ear.

“Say the words. Tell me you’re mine.”

Sam pants, the lack of oxygen driving him towards orgasm. He squirms back against Dean’s cock, and feels its length move inside him, thrusting roughly. 

“Say it.”

The hand on his throat eases and Sam can only whisper, “I’m yours,” before the sharp teeth sink in, and he can hear Dean drinking once more. The double penetration between teeth and cock makes Sam shout out, slapping his palms on the table. He comes harder than ever before, and semen stripes the sides of the red and white linen panels. As his orgasm dies out, the feeling of electricity ebbs to one of drowning. His vision has gone from whiting out to a black tunnel and he knows that he doesn’t have long. Dean releases Sam’s throat and continues to pump his hips as Sam drops his forehead with a thunk against the tabletop. 

“Hey. Hey.” Dean pulls his head back up by the hair, his cock still buried deep inside, and presents his own bloody forearm in front of Sam’s mouth. When Sam seems confused, Dean holds it flat against his lips. “Here, drink it.” 

The coppery smell makes him nauseous and he tries to pull away at first, but Dean won’t let him. He doesn’t care in the end. It will soon be over. But he sucks on Dean’s arm, lets the blood trickle down his throat, to make him happy. It may be too late to turn him, but he doesn’t say that to Dean, not wanting to disappoint. Instead, he is calm as death approaches and darkness takes him under.

***

When Sam opens his eyes, he stares at the wooden ceiling beams twenty-five feet above his head. A bird’s nest is wedged between two of them, with twigs and green and red threads dangling over the edge. A small brown mouse runs the length of a third one, its whiskers twitching as it stops and starts its run to safety. These details in their sharp definition, the awareness of everything, are almost too much for him. He sits up to find himself fully dressed and sprawled across the communion rail cushions; Dean sits nearby with his head tipped back against the rail, hands crossed in front of him.

“Well, you took long enough to wake up.”

Sam scrambles to stand, to get away, but his movements are fast, much faster than he is used to and he stumbles down the steps, landing on his knees. Dean is there in the blink of an eye, catching his arm and pulling him to his feet, but Sam pushes him away.

“I died,” he says.

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“I DIED,” he yells as if that will help him make some sense of it.

Dean laughs. “Well, to be fair, that was always going to happen. I just sped up the process.”

Sam chuffs out a sound of disgust and runs his fingers through his hair. He can feel every strand pull across the tips of his fingers, like fine piano wire, and he begins to panic, dropping his head between his knees to get his bearings. His life so far, hunting the supernatural, had been painted in muted shades. The grey of twilight. The black of the highway. The brown of a grave. The colorful auras and the the sharp edging that surround him are intrusive.

And he waits for the voice of his dad to begin, telling him the horrible mistake he’s made, but it’s quiet.

After a few minutes, a hand drops on his shoulder and Sam looks up again. Dean’s beauty now shines clear as if a pane of glass between them has been scrubbed clean. Dean smiles and the small lines around his eyes wrinkle up and the gold flecks in the green of his eyes shine. The monster Sam saw before, the one who waited in the shadows, patiently preying on the helpless, looks happy.

“It’s okay, Sam. You’ll get used to it over time.” Dean stands up and extends his hand to Sam. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Dean takes him by the hand as they walk through the church, Sam spots a woman holding a hymnal in the choir loft, her mouth open in song. Her image is faint and misty white, and he stops and stares. Her voice is reedy, slightly off key, but joy shines from her face. Another image catches his attention - two young boys are chasing each other around the confessional, laughing and playing tag, before their images disappear from sight.

“Are those--” he starts.

Dean nods, but his nose wrinkles up at the end. “Ghosts. You’ll be able to see a lot of things now that you’re turned.”

He pulls on Sam’s hand again, and they walk up the winding wooden steps to the top of the bell tower. The rain has stopped and the air smells of green grass. As Sam looks down on the field below, he can see a barred owl soaring noiselessly over the corn field as it chases after a field mouse that zigs and zags through the stalks attempting to escape. Beyond the corn, at the end of the two-lane road, the meager lights of St. Dunstan light up the horizon a few miles away.

Sam settles on his elbows against the balcony of the bell tower, and breathes in the rain-clean air. The dark sky is immense and the stars are like chips of diamond, hard and sharp scraping against his nerves. He rests his forehead against his arms to block it all out.

Dean settles next to him on the railing, and the silence that hangs between them is long and comfortable. Patience, Sam thinks, must be important when you live for centuries. A hand touches his shoulder and he looks up.

“I’ve been waiting a long time.” 

“Those others--” Sam’s mind touches on that doll-white body at the side of the road and skitters away. “How many did you--” 

“Kill?” Dean turns to face him. “As many as it took to get to you.”

“But why me?”

Dean touches his cheek. “Because you are broken. Like me.”

A thought occurs to Sam. It’s irrelevant at this point but the researcher in him has to ask. “And the church? How did a vamp end up in a church of all places?”

“What, you don’t like the outfit?” Dean steps back and waves a hand at his black suit. “One thing the local police probably didn’t tell you - the church was deconsecrated back in the seventies when they considered selling the property to the county. Sale never went through, but this place had all its blessings removed. Perfect cover for someone like me.”

Sam could still see the darkness in Dean, underneath the humor. No matter how pretty the package on the outside, Sam was in the presence of a killer. And he would know, being one himself.

“The dust and the mice - this place is worse than the motels I stay at.”

“Just a convenient place to hole up.” Dean gazes out at the night and his eyes sparkle, reflecting back those diamond stars to Sam. “We can go wherever you want. The world is ours. We’ll climb into that big car of yours and drive. And you’d still be hunting, only now, we’d be together.”

It won't be that simple. Sam knows he'll have to feed and is not sure he can do that. But as he looks down at the Impala, still waiting for him in that grey gravel parking lot as if the world hadn’t shifted on its axis, his gut twists up at the thought of riding in it alone.

His dad would have a few things to say about two vampires traveling across the country in his ride, but once again, the voice in his head stays quiet.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

Dean extends his hand, palm up, and Sam looks confused.

“The keys. If we are riding together, I’m driving.”

**Author's Note:**

> St. Dunstan is the patron saint of the lost. The name of the church comes from a real place - The Old Rock Church in St Olaf, Texas - that's supposedly haunted and has been abandoned for services since 1917. It's now a historic landmark. So, there may be ghosts but no sexy vampires, which is a shame.


End file.
